Pembroke’s jaw tightened. He actually shuddered, his shoulders rolling like a man trying to shake off a particularly bad dream.
“My sentiments exactly,” she murmured.
But Pembroke’s continued disbelief was written plainly on his face.
Georgie tilted her chin higher.
“You don’t believe me, do you?” she asked coolly. “That’s why you asked again. You think I’m lying to you.”
He hesitated…just enough for her to see it. Then he said, “No.”
But it came out far too quickly.
She let out a dry laugh and rolled her eyes, settling back against the cushions and turning her face toward the window. “I honestly don’t care what you think,” she muttered. And she meant it.
She didn’t speak to him for the rest of the ride.
He didn’t try to fill the silence.
No doubt he thought that was some kind of victory.
When the coach finally rattled to a halt in the quiet lane behind her father’s town house, Georgie lifted her skirts and stepped down without waiting for him.
The back servants’ door loomed ahead, faintly lit by a single lantern.
She could feel Pembroke’s gaze burning into her back as she ascended the short step to the door.
He’d followed her, his boots echoing softly on the stones.
He stopped just behind her. “I must have your word,” he said quietly, “that you intend to stay here tonight.”
Georgie turned slowly, her hand already on the latch. She pulled the scarf from her head and couldn’t help but roll her eyes again. “As if you’d believe my word,” she shot back.
His green eyes narrowed faintly. “I do believe it,” he said evenly. “And I am asking for it.”
She held his gaze for a long moment, then gave a short, sharp nod. “Fine,” she said. “You have my word.”
And without another glance at him, she flounced inside, letting the door shut behind her with a satisfying thud.
The house was quiet at this hour, the faint scent of rosemary, from dinner, no doubt, still clinging to the stairwell.
Georgie slipped off her shoes and gathered her skirts in her hands, ascending the back staircase silently.
Her pulse finally began to slow as she neared her room on the third floor.
She had to give him credit, she thought grudgingly, Lord Pembroke was more difficult to shake than she’d anticipated.
But he didn’t know her nearly as well as he thought he did.
She’d told him the truth: she had no intention of leaving the house tonight.
No, indeed.
The real escape was planned for her wedding night.
And no one—least of all Pembroke—was going to stop her then.
Chapter Six
